You cant be serious, can you, Peter? Tell me this is just a daft joke, Elizabeth said, drying her hands on the tea towel as she turned to face her husband. The kitchen was filled with the comforting smells of boiled veg, fresh dill, and clementines the aromas of an impending holiday. Only six hours left until New Years Eve. The table was a skyline of chopped ingredients for salad, a duck slow-roasting away in the oven, and in the fridge wobbled a homemade brawn shed simmered all night.
Peter loitered awkwardly in the doorway, fidgeting with the button on his pyjama shirt which, knowing him, meant he realised this was a ridiculous conversation but had no intention of backing down.
Come on, Liz, lets not have a row, he pleaded, voice as wheedling as a puppy at dinnertime. Louises pipes have burst. Well, not burst, but the waters off, no heating either. Imagine spending New Years Eve freezing with the kids? I couldnt say no. They are my boys, after all.
The boys, sure theyre your sons, Liz answered, trying to keep her tone level, though inside she was seething. But Louise? Is she your child as well? Why cant she go to her mothers? To a friend? Or, heaven forbid, a hotel? Those maintenance payments you fork out would easily cover a suite at the Ritz.
Mums away at a spa, friends are scattered about, Peter mumbled, avoiding her gaze. And its a family occasion itd mean the world to the boys, spending it with their dad. Well just have dinner, watch the fireworks. Nothing wild! Theres enough space for everyone.
Liz took in the kitchen around her. Yes, the flat was spacious, but it was theirs. Shed spent ages cleaning, decorating the tree, buying napkins to match the curtains, splurging on that expensive aftershave Peter wanted. She had pictured this evening so differently: candles, fairy lights, a mellow playlist, and just the two of them. Their first New Year as husband and wife in three years where they werent travelling or holding open house. Now, her little idyll was about to topple like a badly-built Jenga tower.
We agreed, Peter, she reminded him quietly. This New Year just us. Ive always welcomed your boys, every other weekend, no problem. But Louise you invited your ex-wife to our table. Do you understand how that looks?
Youre exaggerating. Peter waved a hand, trying to sound confident and failing. Were all grown-ups here. Louise is the boys mum, thats all. Dont be so selfish, Liz. You cant be cruel at Christmas! Theyll be here in an hour.
He spun and strode out, clearly in fear shed chuck a kitchen utensil at his back. Liz stood at the counter, the oven crackling with promise, but her appetite was gone. Selfish. The word stung. Shed spent three years being the model wife, never objecting to Peters weekends with his boys, even running errands for Louise when needed, like rescuing the cat from the vet or fixing her dodgy plumbing. And this was her reward.
Trying to blot out her anger, Liz robotically went back to chopping potatoes. Maybe it wouldnt be so bad. Maybe Louise could behave herself for once. It was New Years, after all if theres ever a time for minor miracles, its now.
But the miracle failed to show. The doorbell chimed exactly fifty minutes later. Liz barely had time to swap her dressing gown for a party dress and slap on a bit of war-paint before Peter was at the door, beaming like a used car salesman.
The commotion in the hall was seismic. In shot the boys Adam, aged ten, and Charlie, seven shoes still on, streaking across the pale wood floor to the living room and leaving blobs of mud in their wake. Then Louise marched in, perfectly poised, as if leading a parade.
Louise was wrapped in a red dress with a neckline deeper than the Channel Tunnel, juggling huge shopping bags. She trailed a miasma of heavy-sweet perfume that instantly smothered Lizs subtle clementine air freshener.
Oh, finally! The traffic is murder. I had to practically bully the cabbie to get a move on! Louise boomed, shaking snow off her fur coat right onto the carpet. Peter, grab these, would you? Presents for the boys and a bottle of proper bubbly, not the stuff you usually buy.
Liz emerged and stuck on her best customer-service smile.
Evening, Louise. Boys, hello.
Louise inspected her up and down, pausing on Lizs tastefully plain dress.
Hi, Liz, she tossed out casually. Is it always this stuffy in here? Open a window, why dont you. And my slippers Peter, where are my pink slippers? The ones I left last time when I popped in for the child support.
Ill find them, Lou, Peter chirped, diving into the shoe cupboard like a man escaping a bad date.
Lou. For Louise, there were personalised slippers in their house? And Peter knew where to find them? Liz felt a coil of irritation wind up in her chest.
The crowd wandered into the sitting room, the boys already had the telly blaring and were bouncing on the new, pale sofa the one Liz treated like an exhibit at the V&A.
Adam, Charlie, careful gently, please! she called out kindly.
Oh, let them be, kids need to bounce, Louise said, flopping into the armchair. Peter, darling, get me a glass of water, throats parched.
The next hour was a one-woman show. Louise ran her mouth about everything the tree was boring, the table was trying too hard, and why so many forks, were they auditioning for Buckingham Palace? Peter pinged around her, ferrying pillows and adjusting the volume, all but bowing and scraping. Liz, meanwhile, was invisible a ghost ferrying dishes, arranging glasses, feeling not so much married as manning the catering.
Liz! Louise hollered from the sofa. Is that ham in the salad? That went out with the ark. Peter likes it with beef. Didnt you know? We always had it with beef.
Peters been scoffing my version for three years and never once complained, Liz replied from the kitchen, a little too loud as she banged the salad bowl onto the tray.
Bless him, hes just polite! Louise snorted. Poor Peter, choking it down!
Peter managed a grimace of a smile from the doorway and said nothing. He didnt leap to Lizs defence didnt say, Stop it, Liz cooks brilliantly. Nothing. Silence, in case he upset his ex.
That was the first alarm bell. The second rang when Liz brought in the duck: golden, glistening, the pride of her culinary efforts, set down in the centre of the table.
Tuck in, she announced. Duck with Bramleys and prunes.
The boys ran over, wrinkling their noses.
Ew, its burnt! declared Charlie. Not eating that! Dad, can we have pizza?
Its not burnt, its supposed to be crispy, Liz tried.
Children these days, honestly, Louise interjected, prodding the leg like she was investigating suspicious meat at a service station. So fatty. And who puts prunes with duck? Peter, order pizza. And one for me as well Ill skip the duck, my stomachs delicate.
Peter shot Liz a wince.
Maybe shes right, Liz? Kids want something fun for New Year. Ill ring round itll be quick delivery.
Youre joking? Lizs voice was shaky. I spent four hours on this dish. Marinated it for a day. Its the best thing I make.
Dont take it so hard, Peter tried, giving her a quick pat that she shrugged off. People like different things. Well have a bit of everything. More festive, isnt it?
His phone was already in his hand, Lou, do you want mushrooms or pepperoni?
Liz sat down, feeling like a player left on the pitch after a football match thats already ended. Her house, her kitchen, her holiday and now she was banished to the sidelines, while her husband discussed pizza with his ex-wife.
Oh! Louise perked up, pouring herself bubbly like she was on the Riviera. Peter, remember when we saw in 2015 at that little chalet? You were Father Christmas and the beard slipped off, we laughed for hours!
Oh yes! And you were the Snow Queen and your heel snapped in a snowdrift! Peter crowed, face alight with nostalgia.
They carried on, trading stories about holidays, first cars, Adams first steps. They laughed, their eyes shining with memories. It was their world their history and Liz didnt exist in it. She sat at her perfectly dressed table feeling utterly invisible. An empty place. Furnishings, at best.
The boys thundered around and someone knocked a glass of claret over the crisp white tablecloth the one Liz had spent ages ironing. The red stain spread rapidly, like blood on snow.
Oh, honestly! said Louise, hands raised. Peter, get a cloth. And why put wine at the edge where the boys are? Liz, have you got any salt? Might help. Mind you, its just a basic cloth, dont fret.
Liz stood, the noise swimming around her. She looked at Peter, who was already fetching salt without so much as a glance in her direction, intent only on pleasing Louise. For him, right then, she simply didnt exist. There was Louise, the children, his guilt, and that was his world. Liz was nothing but helpful scenery.
She quietly left the lounge. No one noticed. Louise was in full reminiscence mode; Peter was guffawing.
Liz retreated to the bedroom. It was dark, calm. She reached for the holdall in the cupboard. No hands shaking. Instead, a calm that was icy and clear. She moved methodically: jeans, jumper, a change of undies, make-up bag, phone charger. Passport. She slipped out of her party dress and into boots. One glance in the mirror: an exhausted but resolute woman stared back.
As she stepped into the hall, the doorbell went pizza.
Pizzas here! yelled the kids.
Peter, pay the delivery guy Im out of change! Louise instructed.
Liz nipped across the hall, past Peter paying at the door, and gently let herself out. The lock clicked softly as she stepped onto the landing. By the time the lift dropped to the ground, she finally exhaled.
Outside, chunky snowflakes plopped from the sky. The city bristled with pre-midnight fizzers and giggles. Liz dialled a number.
Jess, you awake? she asked as soon as her friend picked up.
You mad? Its ten oclock, New Years! Pauls just popped the champagne. You sound like death. What’s up?
Ive left Peter. Can I come over?
Blimey. Of course! Paul, get another glass, Liz is coming! Where are you, Ill send a cab!
Forty minutes later, Liz was in Jesss little kitchen, soothed by cinnamon, warmth and understanding. Paul, ever the diplomat, excused himself to tinker with the TV, leaving them be.
Alright, spill, Jess said, handing over a mug of hot tea.
Liz explained: the broken pipes, salad sabotage, the duck insult, the endless memory lane detour.
You see, Jess, its not that they showed up, Liz said, cupping her tea, its Peter. He turned into a butler. Forgot all about me. I was just staff, while they played at being happy families. Why does he even need me, if he can never let them go?
Oh, the chronic nice guy, Jess shook her head. Gotta keep everyone happy, ends up mugging off the one person he shouldnt. You did right by leaving. If youd stayed, hed always think its fine to walk all over you for Louises sake.
Lizs phone remained mute for an hour before it vibrated. Presumably, Peter and company finally realised she was missing.
He called. Liz ignored it.
He called again. Ignored.
Then came the texts:
Liz, where are you? We cant find you.
You just nipped to the shop? Pizzas getting cold.
Liz, answer, this isnt funny. The kids are asking where you are.
Are you sulking? Really? Come back. You’re embarrassing me in front of Louise.
Liz read the latest one and allowed herself a bitter smile. Embarrassed in front of Louise. Not a word about upsetting his wife; no, just not wanting to look the fool in front of his ex.
Dont answer it, Jess advised. Leave him to stew. He can play butler to Lou and clear up after the boys too.
Liz switched her phone off.
That New Years Eve, she didnt make a wish at midnight. She just sipped champagne with her best mate (and Paul), watched *Love Actually*, and felt oddly light like shed finally shrugged off the weight shed lugged for three years.
New Years Day dawned crisp and blue. Liz woke on Jesss sofa to the smell of fresh coffee. When she switched on her phone: fifty missed calls. Twenty texts, tone sliding from commanding to panicky to plaintive.
The boys smashed your favourite vase. Sorry.
Louise kicked off about the sofa. Said its too hard.
Theyve gone. Liz, the flats a tip. Ive no idea where to start.
Lizzie, darling, forgive me. Im an idiot, truly. Please ring.
Around midday, the doorbell went. Peter stood outside, looking like hed done five rounds in a washing machine rumpled, haggard, with a petrol-station bouquet of bedraggled roses.
Jess opened up, arms folded, and blocked the entrance.
Look whos here. Don Juan himself. What do you want?
Jess, please Liz in? I know shes here. I need to talk to her.
Liz came to the hall. Seeing him like this, she felt nothing but tiredness.
Liz! Peter surged forward, stopped in his tracks by her frostbitten stare. Please, forgive me. It was chaos the moment you left. Louise took over, the boys went wild, the tree’s done for. Louise accused me of ruining the boys night. They left at three. I called them a cab and sent them packing.
He stopped, desperate for her eye contact.
I realise now, Liz. I hurt you. I turned myself into a doormat for them and forgot about you. You’re my family. Just you. Please, come home. Ive tidied well, mostly.
She looked at the roses, petals dropping on the mat.
You didnt just hurt me, Peter. You showed me exactly where I stand. Some place between skivvy and sideboard. You let another woman run my house and slate me.
Itll never happen again! Peter blurted, barely stopping for breath. Ill block Louises number. Well communicate only about the boys, always in public. No more houseguests, no more midnight calls. Ill fix it, I swear.
Liz said nothing. She could tell he honestly meant it. He was terrified and sorry. But could she forget the loneliness of last night?
Im not coming back today, she said finally. Give me time. Ill stay with Jess for a bit. And you go home. Think about *why* you let that happen, not just how to get me back. Why does Louises opinion matter more than mine?
Ill wait, Peter said quietly, eyes on the floor. For as long as it takes. I love you, Liz. I really do.
He dropped the flowers on the console and lurched away. The door shut with finality.
Back in the kitchen, Jess was pouring new tea.
So? she asked softly. Will you forgive the muppet?
I dont know, Jess. Maybe, one day. He is a good man. Just lost. But if I do go back, it wont be the same. Ill never let myself be pushed into the background again. Ever.
She drifted over to the window. Beyond, the city was dusted white, like a fresh sheet of paper. Life would go on. But from now on, Liz knew for certain: she alone would write the story of her family, not ghosts from the past.
